


Sunrise From This Side

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He wants her to look at him and see who he is. Things he's forgotten and how he feels. He wants her to see, even if he doesn't know himself. He wants to take her to breakfast." Two-Shot post-ep for The Fifth Bullet (2 x 11).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  


"Let's get waffles."

She gives him a strange look. Like she knows it's not what he was going to say.

It's not.

She does.

_Let me take you to breakfast._

That's what he was going to say. That's the safe version. Kind of safe. Just the bleeding edge of everything about to spill out of him. And from the way she's narrowing her eyes—from the look she's shooting him—she knows full well.

She knows that the sight of them has him feeling sentimental. A man, a woman, and a dog. Sunrise and the strangest kind of second chance an elevator ride away.

It makes him impulsive. Hopeful and bold enough for that. To not quite ask her out.

She knows full well, and she has a plan already. Evasive action. Because _not quite_ is too close for comfort. Hers, but his too. He didn't quite ask, and she's still evading, and isn't that interesting?

"Montgomery's going to tell you to go home."

He says it an instant before her head turns toward the Captain's office. It's too late by then. She's already looking that way. She's already looking for an out, but she won't find it. Not there.

Montgomery is only just flipping open his office blinds. Evelyn has them on decaf, and any minute, he'll shuffle toward the break room for the cup of the real stuff he sneaks every morning.

He'll stop by Beckett's desk. He'll blink. He'll glower when he realizes she's still in yesterday's clothes. When he sees the pale purple shadows under her eyes and the way the night hangs on her. He'll tell her to go home and she knows it.

Her jaw twitches. She gives Castle a look.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't smile. He doesn't clap his hand over his mouth to hold back everything that suddenly fills it. He wants to beg her. He wants to let this mask of his slip and just say it.

_Let me take you to breakfast. Come watch the sunrise with me._

She looks like she knows that, too. How close he is to that. She knows. She's waiting for it. The push so she can push back. She's waiting, but he doesn't beg.

He shrugs. Glances at his phone and tries for nonchalant. "You've gotta eat, Beckett."

She's silent. Damnably silent for long enough that it's about to get undignified. He's about to beg. To touch her, maybe.

He's tired enough. Giddy enough with sunrise. With the ups and downs of the last forty-eight hours and the happy ending he's writing for Jeremy and Emma and Lucy. It all might make him stupid enough to touch her.

He might lean toward her, just across the corner of her desk. His hand might creep out and brush over the soft-looking material of her sweater. His fingers might trace the inviting drape of the open neck beneath. His thumb might follow the arc of the pale purple shadows under her eyes and he might whisper to her.

_Come with me. Let me take you to breakfast._

It's the sunrise. That has to be it. His insides are fizzing with the exhausted thrill of staying up all night with her. And he might be exactly that stupid.

"Do I?" she says finally.

She's still looking at him now and then. Busying herself with paperwork and straightening up her desk. But she keeps flicking these glances at him like she might know how stupid he is. Like she's on guard.

That's probably ok. That's probably good, right? One of them should be on guard against stupid things, and it's not him. Right now, it's definitely not him.

It should be her. She should be on guard. She is. Kind of. But she's tired. She's tired and more beautiful than ever with it. With the pale purple shadows under her eyes and the sun creeping across the bullpen floor to just touch her skin.

She's a romantic. _A romantic._ He knew it. Absolutely he knew it, but she just looked him in the eye and said it out loud. They've been up all night together, and he can't remember why it is they're guarding against stupid things. Why _he_ is, anyway.

She has her reasons. He's given her some of them. Most of them, maybe. Nine months' worth of reasons to be on guard. He's given her plenty, gift wrapped.

He wants to stop, but it's been so long. For them. For him. He's been playing this part for so long he's not sure he remembers how else to be.

He wants to. He wants to remember how. To be something else to her. With her. He wants her to look at him and see who he is. Things he's forgotten and how he feels. He wants her to see, even if he doesn't know himself.

He wants to take her to breakfast.

"You do." He says it quietly. Gentle and matter of fact.

It has her looking at him. It has her eyes going wide and then narrow, busywork forgotten, because it shouldn't be like that.

Quiet and gentle and matter of fact. It's not how he asks her for things. It's not how he makes it ok. Safe for her to give in. Ok for her to push back.

It should be loud. Needling and teasing. Bullying. Because that's how they do this. But he wants to stop.

"You need to eat," he says again, and he does smile this time. A small one. A real one. It feels strange. Like he's out of practice. "And I could go for waffles."

She blinks. Her lips part, and he holds her gaze. He's too tired for how they usually do this, and it's not just because they've been up all night.

He wants to stop.

She's about to say something. To ask what this is, maybe. Who he is all of a sudden. Who he's been all along. She's about to say something and then Montgomery is there.

Of course he is.

He's a looming shadow between her and sunrise. Between them and some other way to do this. He breaks the moment. His spoon clangs against the sides of his mug. He scolds her and she looks away. She nods down at her desktop and murmurs a tight _Yes, Sir._

Castle's shoulders slump. He looks at the floor like the moment is there. Scattered in pieces between them.

Montgomery stalks away, grumbling. He slams the door behind him, and Castle lifts his head. He takes a breath. Gathers himself to go. To give her the usual smile and pretend like none of this happened.

Maybe it didn't. He's tired and sentimental and maybe he imagined it. Maybe it's just a figment of sunrise. He gathers himself. He lifts his head and blinks.

She's watching him. Guarded, but curious. Like the moment is unbroken and she might ask who he is.

He swallows. Holds her gaze and waits.

"Waffles?" She quirks an eyebrow at him.

He smiles. Looks away because it's safer. Not safe, but safer. He gathers himself and tries to think of something to say, whether it's safe or not. He can't find anything, though. He lifts his head again.

She's watching him.

She smiles. Small and real. She looks away, but not really. She looks down at her desk and lets the smile grow. She reaches for her bag and pushes to her feet.

"C'mon, Castle." She jerks her head toward the elevator. "You've gotta eat."

* * *

The December sun is thin. It twists through the clouds in yellow filaments, no less beautiful for how fragile it seems.

The sky is overcast, and it's cold down here on the street, with the buildings rising on either side of them and the sunrise still a work in progress. She puts her back to it. Strikes out northwest from the front door of the precinct.

He follows her lead. They walk in step almost to the corner before she stops. She swings toward him, a little unsteady on her feet with more than just the abrupt change in direction. She's tired. He catches her elbow to right her and they're suddenly closer than either of them was counting on.

"Wait." Her eyes close and open. A slow-motion blink as she takes a step back. "Where are we going?"

"You seemed to know." His fingers drop with a little more reluctance than is good for him. Good for either of them, maybe.

He pulls his hand away and stuffs it into the comparative safety of his coat pocket.

She folds her arms behind her back. She chews her lip. Her face turns back the way they came, but her body leans away. Onward.

"I usually . . ." She trails off. "Do you know Veselka?"

The name rings some kind of bell for him. A faint one. His mind churns and his mouth fills up with what he knows, already trying to make more of it. To have something to say. Play the expert.

He sees her out of the corner of his eye, a little of the thin December sun falling across her face as her brows draw together. As her shoulders set and she braces.

She's ready to be annoyed, he realizes. And he's ready to annoy her. To fill up the silence with nothing, because that's what he does. It's what _they_ do, and the sunrise makes him want something different.

He stops, then. Empties his mind and his mouth. He shakes his head. "No, not really."

She lets out a breath. She shoots him a look like she's a little annoyed anyway, but there's a smile wound all through it. Like she's not _exactly_ annoyed. Surprised maybe. That will always bug her a little, he thinks. She likes to have things figured out and it makes her wary.

 _Wary_. That's it. Wary, but not quite annoyed, and that's different. It feels like a victory. It makes him smile, too. Small and real. He holds his arm out, gesturing for her to lead on.

She nods and they set off again. They move onward, quiet and easily in step. _He's_ quiet, and that seems to surprise her, too. To make her wary, but not quite annoyed.

She steals glances at him like she's waiting. Bracing again, and going loose when it doesn't come. The loud, needling, teasing thing he does.

It doesn't come, and she's the one to break the silence. She's the one to offer something, and that's a victory, too.

"Ukranian," she says. "It's . . . it'll be busy."

She half turns to him, a question in the twist of her body toward his.

"I'm good with busy." He leaves it at that.

He ducks his head into his collar. It's cold, but the movement has more to do with her than the wind cutting across his cheeks.

He's ok with quiet, for once. More than ok if it means her being the one to offer. If it's a chance to listen, not tell. But it's a nibble. An interesting, dangling little thing. _It'll be busy._ And she's worried _he's_ not ok with that.

He's swallowing a question of his own. A comment. That he would've figured her for out-of-the-way places. Corner booths and meals alone. Near the back and the bare minimum of words. That's what he would have figured her for, but apparently not.

"Me too." She ducks into her own collar. Seems to find words in the very place he's hiding his own. "I'm good with busy."

He likes the parallel. He likes the difference. He turns his head toward the street. West and away. From her. From sunrise, like it's too much, fragile as it is. He hides a smile when she goes on.

"I like . . . noise?"

Her head swivels toward him. He sees it from the corner of his eye. Hears it in the way her voice curls up. The way it rises into a question like he'll know.

He doesn't. He feels like he's letting her down, but her face dips again, and she grins at the sidewalk. At their feet moving easily side by side.

"I like noise," she says again, and she's sure this time. Definite. "People moving and talking, even this early."

"You're a morning person." The words hit the pale yellow light and scatter. He wishes they hadn't. The moment they do, he wishes they hadn't.

He's telling her. Playing the expert. He's sorry for it. Sorry for the return to the same old thing he's been doing for nine months.

But she laughs. "You'd think so."

The laugh fades, but she smiles. Lets her head fall back. Tips her face from side to side until she finds sun.

"I guess I am," she says with a sigh. "Now. Have to be."

"But not . . ."

His head is down. His eyes shift toward her. He doesn't want to tell. He's not trying to tell her how she is. The hard, uncompromising cop and this, too. This woman beneath the pale purple shadows, tipping her face from side to side to find the sunrise.

He doesn't want to tell. He wants to ask and he wonders if it's allowed. If the sunrise makes difference enough that he can ask. If he can take her to breakfast and get to know her the way people usually do. The way he hasn't gotten to know anyone in a long, long time

His eyes shift toward her. They meet hers. Tentative. Corner to corner.

"Not always?" he finishes.

His voice curls up. It rises into a question and she gives a satisfied nod.

"Not always," she repeats. "Not even now, really." She shrugs inside her jacket. A tired, all-over body shiver that courses through the air between them to run through his own. "I like sunrise from this side."

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He wants her to look at him and see who he is. Things he's forgotten and how he feels. He wants her to see, even if he doesn't know himself. He wants to take her to breakfast." Two-Shot post-ep for The Fifth Bullet (2 x 11).

* * *

It's busy. The loud clash of an efficient kitchen and the low-key roar of a New York early-morning crowd. Almost everyone is alone. On their way somewhere. This isn't a destination for most people.

It is for them. He likes it. The way they're going together against the flow of traffic. It's like a snow day. Like playing hooky. He likes the sunrise from this side, too.

The two of them make their way past the streaming line of head-down commuters with greasy takeout bags and steaming travel mugs. The counter is busy and a good number of the tables are filled.

She gets an irregular series of nods from the staff as they go. Brief eye contact and small gestures. They know her here. _Usually_ , she said. He remembers the reluctant word and the way she trailed off. It stirs his tired mind. It makes him take notice.

They know her. It's not arms spread wide and booming voices. It's not a performance like it is at the places they know him.

It's precisely aligned silverware set out in front of the counter seat next to the pastry case. An eyebrow raised in inquiry and a nod from her before the same appears in front of the seat to the left of that.

It's a cup righted on its saucer and a look of surprise when she shakes her head. When she slides on to the stool and murmurs, "Cocoa today."

" _Cocoa?"_

His voice is _loud_. Movie loud. He didn't even mean to say it and he'd swear the whole place grinds to a halt. The sound effect of a needle on vinyl as the single word clambers over the top of all the noise.

"Cocoa," she repeats, drawing it out without so much as a sidelong glance at him.

He stands by, helpless and flustered. He didn't even mean to say it, but _cocoa?_

She makes him wait. Lets him suffer a few agonizing moments more before she tilts her head his way. She motions to the stool beside her, an eye roll already in progress.

He sinks into it, miserable, grateful, and _tired_ all of a sudden.

"Sir?" The server holds up a brimming pot of coffee.

"Cocoa. Too. Please."

_"Cocoa?"_ she gasps. She lets her eyes go wide and swings dramatically on her stool to face him.

She's laughing at him. As usual. He's tired and feels like a fool. He spins toward her. A clumsy jerk of his body. He fights the uncooperative stool to face her. He's just about to snap.

He's just about to, but he sees her then. Elbows on the counter and her head cocked back to look at him. To size him up.

She's laughing, but that's different, too. Her face is set in a grin. It's loose and lopsided. Tired and open and fizzing along in a lower key.

She's laughing, but it's . . . silly. It's friendly and conspiratorial and _kind._ It's inviting, and he's pretty sure it's not just his sleep-deprived brain making that up.

It's not just a figment of sunrise. It's inviting. He takes a chance.

"Shut up," he deadpans.

He swings back around to the counter. He bumps her body with his own. Shoulder and hip, elbow and knee.

He feels her blink. He won't look. He's superstitious. He'll jinx it if he looks. But he feels her blink.

It's a dragging, weary moment. He's tired and it devastates him in an instant. He's about to turn to her again. He's about to apologize. To make a fool of himself. A bigger fool, because that's how they do this.

And then she bumps him back. A shoulder check hard enough to clack his teeth. A reminder that what little there is of her could kick his ass in six different ways. But she bumps him back.

"I will if you will." She grumbles it under her breath, but the grin is there. To see and to hear. That loose, lopsided, _silly_ grin.

"Deal." He turns his own grin on the menu, grateful for something to do.

He hasn't made it past the cover. He's tracing the deco font and puzzling over the Cyrillic when the server sets a mug in front of each of them. Hers is piled high with marshmallows. A careful mound that climbs up and spreads out to reach every point on the circumference of the rim.

He looks down at his own cup. At the meager scatter of white on brown. His mouth falls open in dismay.

He turns to her. She's hiding. Not really hiding. Pretending to hide, but the grin stretches out, too big even for the marshmallow mountain, and her eyes are bright and wicked above the pale purple shadows underneath.

"No _fair,_ " he huffs.

She laughs then. Full-on laughs, hard enough to send a marshmallow-crested wave slopping over the rim of her cup. Hard enough to send a wisp of white fluff into the air. It floats for a breath and a half, then settles on the tips of her hair where a lock sweeps across her forehead.

"Your hair." He makes a fumbling gesture at his own forehead. "You have a little . . ."

She sets down the mug. She swipes at the spot and misses. "Ok?"

"No, I . . ." His hand rises and falls away. The work of the same moment.

He freezes. Sits absolutely still.

He wants to touch her. He wants to reach out thoughtlessly and brush her hair back.

Last night, he could have. Just a while back, he did. On the street, he closed his fingers around her elbow to steady her. A moment ago—right here—he bumped her body with his own. Right up to this moment he might've touched her, but he freezes now.

He freezes, because it doesn't end there.

He wants to touch her. To forget about the tiny white wisp in her hair and spin her on the stool to face him. To unwrap her fingers from around the mug and pull her into his body. He wants to steal the warm, sweet taste right from her mouth.

He wants to kiss her and not stop.

"You ok?" She leans toward him to peer at his face.

He almost jumps out of his skin. He slides back. Away from the urge to kiss the furrow between her brows or the concerned wrinkle of her nose. The urge to kiss her and not stop.

"I . . . fine. Uh . . ." He slides back and almost overbalances. There's no back to the stool and he almost loses his seat. "Fine."

He cranks himself around to face the counter. He bumps his place setting. The silverware jangles together, and his hands come down to silence it, loud and flat and clumsy. He gropes for the napkin holder.

"Here!" That's loud, too. _Way_ too loud. He shoves the napkin holder toward her. Too close to her face.

She starts back. She gives him a bewildered look. He's holding it napkin-side toward her.

"Here," he says again, bobbling the thing a quarter turn so one of the reflective sides faces her. "See?"

He catches sight of himself in the scratched metal facing him. No wonder she's looking at him like that. He's gone pale and his eyes are huge and is that really what his hair looks like?

"Jeez." He swipes at it again and makes it worse. It's standing up all over the place.

"It knows you've been up all night."

His head snaps up.

She's watching him. The marshmallow is gone, of course. Like it was never there. She's watching him slap at his own head and she's grinning. Sleepily amused. Pleased with herself and _grinning_ and silly and she really has to stop.

"It shouldn't _work_ like that," he mutters. "Bedhead shouldn't work like that."

She laughs and takes the napkin holder from him. Sets it down again, safely out of reach.

The server materializes then, and he's grateful for a second. Grateful for something to think about other than kissing her. Something other than what would happen if he did. He's grateful until he realizes that he hasn't looked at the menu at all. Nothing beyond the cover anyway.

But apparently that doesn't matter. She takes it from him. Yanks it right out his hand and holds up two fingers. The server nods and takes the menus from her. Scrawls something as she walks away.

"I didn't even . . ."

"I'm hungry," she says, like that explains it. "You were gonna dither."

Bossy. The word fills his mouth so full he can't even say it. She's _so_ bossy. It should probably clear that whole needing-to-kiss-her thing right up.

It doesn't. It really doesn't.

He hides behind his cocoa. "Do I get to know what I'm getting?"

"No." She tips the marshmallow pyramid carefully toward her. She ducks her head and takes a sip. "You'll like it."

"So why not tell me?" He takes a sip of his own and winds up with marshmallow all over his lip. He reaches for a napkin. They're stuffed in tight and he has to claw at it. Five or six come away in shreds and he ends up using the back of his hand.

She presses her lips together—her completely marshmallow-free lips—and tries not to laugh. Sort of tries not to laugh. The marshmallow island rises up and spreads out. It hovers just shy of the tip of her nose and levels off again. She takes another sip.

"Because it bugs you."

* * *

"Kielbasa?" He stares down at the plate. "Waffles and kielbasa?"

"Eat." She taps her knife against the letters curving around the ceramic rim. "Or I will."

He believes her. She's tucking into her own plate with a vengeance. Alternating bites of each like she doesn't want to play favorites. Her eyes fall half shut with every mouthful, and he thinks she might have just moaned. There might have been an actual blissed-out moan. He's pretty sure he didn't imagine that. Not that he trusts himself at the moment. He doesn't trust himself _at all_.

He picks up his knife and fork. Eating seems relatively safe. He probably won't wrap himself around her if he's eating. He probably won't bury his nose in the soft, open neck of her sweater and ask her if it's possible that she just moaned. He probably won't ask her to do it again. He won't try to make her do it again.

Probably. _Eat_. Right.

He stares down at the plate. It's a weird combination, but that's not what's bothering him. Something itches at his brain and he can't seem to make a start on things.

"There's no syrup." He blurts it out. Too loud again and strangely triumphant. His ears burn.

Her head swings around. She doesn't look blissed out now. She looks like she might beat him up and take his kielbasa. "You are _not_ putting syrup on one of Oxana's waffles."

"But it's . . ." He looks helplessly from the waffle back to her. "It's a _waffle_. It's _made_ for syrup. It's all . . . waffled with little syrup traps."

"No syrup," she repeats.

"But _why?_ "

It pops out. He's whining, and he didn't even mean to ask. He really didn't. He likes blissed-out, moaning Beckett. He _like_ likes blissed-out, moaning Beckett, however dangerous she might be. And whining is not going to bring her back.

"One, it's gross." Not-blissed-out Beckett brandishes her knife and holds up her index finger. Her middle finger joins it. "Two, it's extra."

"It's _extra_?" He really wants to stop talking. Really. Mostly. Because he misses blissed-out Beckett. But he's tired and his mouth just keeps going. "You know I'm, like, a millionaire, right?"

"Weren't you shutting up?" She glowers at him. Like _really_ glowers, and his stomach flutters.

He misses blissed-out Beckett. But he likes this one, too. A lot. He has a sinking feeling that he like _likes_ all the Becketts he'll ever meet. He has a sinking feeling that life as he knew it ended just this side of sunrise.

He wraps his hands around his silverware and holds tight. He cuts a wedge off his waffle. He leans over and steals some of her butter, even though there's little silver dish of it right at the side of his own plate. He dunks the tip of the little triangle and leans in, closer than it's smart to get for any number of reasons.

He bumps her shoulder with his. "I will if you will."

Her hand snakes out. She snatches the fork from him. Right out of his fingers and pops the dripping bit of waffle into her mouth. Her eyes flit closed, and that is _definitely_ a one-hundred percent not imaginary moan.

She hands the fork back. Laughs when he fumbles it from hand to hand and picks her own up again. She leans in. Bumps his shoulder with hers, and it's way closer than it's smart to get.

"Deal."

* * *

It's amazing. The food is all amazing. And he'll go to his grave denying it, but she was right about the syrup. It's gone now. All of it, and he doesn't really know how that's possible. He was full less than midway through, but it's gone, and he's three seconds away from stretching out on the counter for a nap.

She's closer than that. She's leaning heavy on one elbow and dragging the very last bit of waffle around her plate. Her eyes are barely open, and he wonders if they'd let him buy the place. If the two of them could move in right now. Or at least take a nap on the counter.

"You done?" He asks softly. He hates to break the moment, but the shadows are dark under her eyes and her cheek is slipping down her fist. She should sleep and she's probably not going to let him buy her a Ukranian diner to make it happen.

She startles. Jerks her spine straight and blinks.

"Done." She shakes herself. Opens her eyes wide. "Oh, done. Are you?"

"Just about." He swirls his mug. Stares down into the last two lukewarm swallows. _Done._ He is, just about.

He doesn't want to be. He's dead tired now. Full and warm and comfortable. He could sleep for a year, but he doesn't want _this_ to be done. He'd like it to go on from sunrise to sunrise to sunrise. Waffles and marshmallows she spooned from her mug into his.

_There,_ she'd said. _Now stop looking so pathetic, Castle_.

He doesn't want to give up this warm, buzzing ease between them. But she's tired. _He's_ tired, and it's probably not practical to buy the place.

"I'm done." She looks down at her plate. Peers across the counter like she's trying to remember something. "We should . . ." She trails off. Her finger winds through the air in a writing motion. She looks around for the server.

"Already did." He braces, ready to argue with her. He hopes she won't. He hopes she'll just let it be.

She frowns. Her shoulders go back and her chin lifts. He's staring into the last of his cocoa. He sees it out of the corner of his eye—the Beckett who's going to argue—and his nerves twang like they're suddenly pulled tight.

She's going to argue. A sour note to end the sunrise on, and he's depressed all out of proportion to it. He's tired, but it's more than that. He wishes she'd let it go. That she'd let him take her to breakfast. He wishes it could be different.

And then it is. She softens and it's more than letting it go. It's a decision. An effort, and she makes it. She lets her shoulders loosen and her chin come to rest in her palm. She leans heavy on her elbow and turns to give him a small, sleepy smile. "Thanks. Mine next time."

He smiles back. It's not small at all. He turns it on his cocoa, for all the good it does. "Yours next time."

* * *

He walks her home.

There's no discussion about it. She turns North and then East, and doesn't seem surprised to find him by her side. She doesn't stop. She doesn't round on him and point out that he lives in the other direction entirely. She doesn't ask why he's following her. She just seems to assume that he will, or maybe this time she just doesn't mind that he does.

He's not particular about which. He's glad.

They talk in soft snatches. It's not really a conversation and it is. It's the same back-and-forth they do all day, but it's diners and ill-advised all nighters, not bodies and motive. She drops one thread, he picks up another, and it's easy.

She lives close. He knew that. He's known where she lives almost since the beginning. He's looked up in passing. Wondered idly and not-so-idly what she's like at home. About the things she surrounds herself with and what the light is like when she comes home in the middle of the night. How the air tastes when it's been days and she hasn't come home at all.

But it's different standing at her elbow waiting for the traffic light to change. It's different with her building looming just across the intersection and the sun finally breaking through the clouds to start the day in earnest.

She leans against the lamp post. She's tired for real now. She's letting herself be, and that's different, too.

"Will you sleep?" The question makes its way out. He's not sure why he's asking or how it sounds to her. Leering, maybe. Or patronizing.

It stirs her at first. She gathers herself up and pushes off the lamp post like he asked just to catch her out. But he waits quietly, hands in his pockets, and she lets go again. She shrugs.

"I might try," she says. "But . . ."

"But . . ." he agrees. He tilts his head back and thinks about it. Weak sun filtering through the blinds while blood and the memory of all this thump along and keep him awake.

The light changes and they make their way across the street. They're at her door and he waits for it to be awkward. For the world to shift back to normal and the thread of this snap.

But she digs her keys out of her pocket and lets them dangle from her fingers. She leans her shoulder against one side of the doorway. He leans his against the other.

"Thanks, Castle." She jingles the keys. A nervous little movement like she's gathering her courage. She looks up at him and her face is soft and open and uncomplicated. "This was good."

"Even without syrup." That makes it way out, too, but she laughs before he has time to regret it.

"Told you."

"You did."

They're standing there, smiling at each other across her doorway, and it should be awkward. Finding an ending should be awkward. But she pushes off her shoulder and shakes the keys out.

It aches a little. He's doesn't want this to be done. But she's smiling at him. Thanking him and _next time_ is there between them. Unspoken, but certain anyway. He believes in it. He's glad about it. He thinks she is, too.

"Night, Castle," she says over her shoulder as she fits the key in the lock.

"Morning, actually." He can't resist. It feels right, anyway. For this last moment to be different and the same all at once.

She rolls her eyes. She shakes her head and doesn't quite manage a scowl as she jerks a hip against the door when it sticks.

He grins down at the sidewalk. He waits for the snick of the door closing. He's just turning away. He's grinning, but he aches a little too much to watch it happen. To watch her go.

She catches the door, then. It's the last instant before it closes and it pulls him back around. The sound that doesn't come pulls him back around, and they're facing each other through the glass.

She curls her fingers around the door's scarred metal frame. Widens the gap just a little. Just enough for words.

"Until tomorrow," she says.

She lets go then. The snick comes as she turns away. She pushes through the inside door and he hears the hollow thud boom through the foyer.

She doesn't look back, but he can see it as clearly as if she did. The wicked grin of her own that he knows she'll carry with her. Up the stairs and through another door. He doesn't know what she surrounds herself with or how the light looks, but he knows that grin.

"Until tomorrow," he says to the glass.

He turns and goes.


End file.
